Vase
by slam a revolving door
Summary: [Oneshot] 'She closes her eyes and squints, watching as the light reflecting off the glass blurs and shimmers. If she tries hard enough, the office will disappear and the broken glass along with it.'


Disclaimer: I do not own House.

Word Count: 1168

Shipping: House/Cameron

Genre: General, slight angst, slight romance.

Reviews: Yes please!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Vase**

She sits there on the floor in the midst of the glass. She closes her eyes and squints, watching as the light reflecting off the glass blurs and shimmers. If she tries hard enough, the office will disappear and the broken glass along with it. She'll be left in a world where nothing is routine and everything is whole. And those sparkling lights won't be reflected off shards of coloured glass, but instead be emitted by gems, fuelled by love. _(love: the myth, the dream, the nightmare)_

But she can't stay with her eyes half-closed_ (or is it half-open?)_ forever. The world calls and she awakes _(like Sleeping Beauty, except there is no beauty, no true love, no happy ending) _to find herself alone in the dim office. The empty space that the vase used to occupy screams out at her and she cringes, averting her gaze hastily to the glass on the floor.

"What did you do?" his voice is faintly accusatory, and she jerks slightly in surprise. Her hand tightens momentarily around the piece of glass that she clutches _(when did she pick it up?) _and it stings and it hurts and it would probably bleed too if she looked at it. But now she is too busy cursing the fact that he is omniscient and omnipresent, because somehow he always finds her at her nadir. _(She doesn't have a zenith, unless you count that time when she tried to escape by using that guy's drugs. Escape was never her style anyway.)_ It takes her a while to realise that he is still waiting for her answer, and that surprises her, because he doesn't usually have time to wait around.

"Knocked the vase over," she replies coolly, avoiding his piercing gaze. _(He always looks at her like that, and it makes her uncomfortable, because he knows how imperfect she is. How like him she is.) _She really should get off the floor, she decides, but it looks like too much effort to get up without the aid of a chair, and the nearest chair is too far away.

"Want the glue?" he asks, face inscrutable. She looks up at him for the first time, searching desperately for any trace of sarcasm, because then it'll mean that she won't have to answer. But for a change his face is clear and devoid of snark _(she doesn't know if that's a word, but it describes him so well) _and she knows what her answer is going to be.

"Yes … please." Because she is an optimist, no matter how much she tries to change. _(She's never wondered why she wants to change; she just knows that she needs to)_ She doesn't need to know how small the pieces are or how one has already cut her. She doesn't need to know how long it'd take or how stupid she is for trying. She doesn't _need _to know anything. But she sure wants to ignore it.

He passes her the glue.

She doesn't know where he produced it from – not that that really matters much – or if he's going to mock her or stand watching in silence. But she knows he's not going to leave, because he needs to prove how much she needs to fix things. When she thinks about it _(which she tries hard not to do)_, she doesn't really know much anymore. _(if she ever did to begin with)_

She looks at the enormity of the task in front of her and is suddenly overwhelmed. She doesn't know where to begin. Picking up a piece of glass, she feels its jagged edge. If she's not careful it will pierce her skin and make her bleed, but does she really mind? She picks up the next piece and feels its edge, and by some miracle _(does she believe in miracles anymore?) _they seem to follow roughly the same cracked line. She carefully smears glue on their edges and holds them together _(desperately?) _tightly. Looking up, she sees him standing in front of her unmoving. He knows what she will not admit, _(that the piec-) _and even in her head she will not admit it, she won't ever give in. Because as long as she _(can force herself to) _believe, then there is hope. There should always be hope. Is there always hope?

Putting down the pieces that have been glued together, she picks up another piece. It is a light aquamarine _(and if she keeps comparing them to gems then it won't matter that her hands hurt so much) _and its edges are sharp and cutting _(just like his comments)._

"This one will fit," he says, tapping a piece of glass _(another aquamarine … maybe turning turquoise?) _gently with the tip of his cane. She looks at him and flashes him a brief, tired smile. She picks the pieces up and suddenly her hands don't feel that tired anymore, and the edges of the glass seem to come together smoothly. But the glue still sticks to her fingers and the vase is still on the floor in pieces and the pieces aren't growing less and maybe she's just being foolish as usual. But then he's lowering himself to the floor next to her – awkwardly, of course – and she only just remembers not to offer help _(like she would usually do, because she's a nice girl. She's always been a 'nice girl'. Niceness is overrated.) _

He sits on the floor beside her and she concentrates on gluing the pieces as tightly as possible. This is just another puzzle for him, she decides, but not one of his usual puzzles. He likes the puzzles that require him to think, and she likes the puzzles that she can solve, and they're so _(too) _different. But his hands rest on a piece of glass beside her and his brow furrows for a moment, and she can't help feeling that this puzzle isn't really any different from his usual puzzles. _(Just because he avoids meeting the patients doesn't mean he can't. Because he can – he can, he can, he can!) _

The light comes beaming through the crack in the blinds and lighting on a blood red piece of glass_ (a ruby)._ His eyes flash like the pieces of glass, and he picks it up and feels its edge. She realises that she's been staring at him, and turns back to the remains of the vase. She can feel his thoughtful gaze on her and she cringes, waiting for a disparaging comment or insult.

"These pieces will never fit perfectly together," he says calmly, looking at her.

She visibly relaxes and nods slowly. "It doesn't matter," she replies, meeting his gaze. "I never thought it did."

And the glue is silently passed between them and the pieces are picked up one by one.

And by the time the others come in, the _(cracked) _vase is sitting back on the table, glass splinters swept from the floor. And nobody notices the difference.

_(but she notices and he notices, and is that an almost smile?) _

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


End file.
